


A Study in Asexuality

by ladyxdarcy



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Acephobia, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Asexual Sherlock, Bisexual John, Emotional Sherlock, Established Relationship, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Fluff, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Insecure Sherlock, M/M, Mention of Rape/Corrective Rape Therapy, Mild Sexual Content, Non-Compliant with Seasons/Series 3 and 4, Overdose, Past Mary Morstan/John Watson, Past Suicidal Thoughts, Vulnerable Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-23
Updated: 2018-03-23
Packaged: 2019-04-06 17:49:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14062170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyxdarcy/pseuds/ladyxdarcy
Summary: When Sherlock, asexual to his core, fears that John may grow bored of a sexless life, he decides to do whatever it takes to make John happy so he stays.Good thing John is already happy.





	A Study in Asexuality

**Author's Note:**

> I am, like canon ACD Sherlock is thought to be, completely asexual. While I quite enjoy smut, especially Johnlock smut, I got to thinking how Sherlock's asexuality is frequently ignored. I myself like to view him as either demi- or grey- when I have him enter into sexual relations, but I wanted to work on a completely asexual Sherlock Holmes this time.
> 
> This story acts in part as sort of an explanation to others who might not fully understand what being asexual means, as well as for my fellow asexuals who have suffered through something similar. This is for all of us.
> 
> The definition inside is a simple one from Google, but I tried to flush it out some. There is so much more that hasn't been mentioned, so much more that is part of asexuality, but for the purpose of the story I focused on Sherlock and his own version, which matches my own so closely.
> 
> There are, potentially, some triggering words or actions in here. I myself have dealt with acephobic BS more than once, and it hurts. There is nothing wrong with me, and there is nothing wrong with Sherlock.
> 
> There is nothing wrong with any of us.

John was going to leave him.

It was inevitable, of course. There was no way to avoid it. It might not happen any time soon, of course, but it would eventually. Eventually John would decide he’d had too much, would decide he needed more than what Sherlock could provide him, and he would leave. The inevitable conclusion to this farce of a relationship they were in.

The problem, of course, was that John was an incredibly sexual being, and Sherlock…well, Sherlock was not. He’d heard the term asexual be used to describe him before, a scoffing offhand remark by Donovan after yet another case with a crime of passion being the cause, and he supposed it fit. He’d gone home and looked it up a bit after John had grown defensive on his behalf, back before they were anything together, and he had to say that it fit him rather perfectly. Donovan had meant it as an insult, but the truth stared at him in the form of the word’s definition.

**_ASEXUAL_ **

_a·sex·u·al_

_/āˈsekSH(o͞o)əl/_

_ADJECTIVE_

_adjective: asexual_

  1. _without sexual feelings or associations._
  2. _BIOLOGY (of reproduction) not involving the fusion of gametes; without sex or sexual organs._



_NOUN_

_noun: asexual; plural noun: asexuals_

  1. _a person who has no sexual feelings or desires._



Well, the matter of the biological reproduction bit aside, that did rather fit Sherlock like one of his bespoke suits. He didn’t feel sexual feelings or desires, or as another definition termed it, sexual attraction. Even though he was in a relationship with John now, he wasn’t sexually attracted to the man. He acknowledged the man’s beauty, acknowledged he was indeed physically attractive and had a definite sexual energy over him, but Sherlock’s own sexual attraction to that simply did not exist.

John was the complete opposite.

John had always been a sexual creature, had lost his virginity at a young age, and who, now that Sherlock knew what to look for, had a very real sexual attraction to Sherlock himself. It had terrified him a bit, when John made a move when they first got to together, not knowing what to expect or what was expected of him, but John never pushed for anything.

“Right,” John had said a bit wryly, and Sherlock wondered how panicked his expression had been. “Asexual,” John had continued to say, as though reminding himself. He’d been quiet, pensive, attention focused inward, and Sherlock felt his gut in his throat. Because this was it, wasn’t it? John couldn’t be with someone who found sex—maybe not quite repulsive—but definitely completely unappealing. John would end this before it ever truly began.

And then John surprised Sherlock.

“Is cuddling okay?”

Sherlock had looked at John like he’d grown a second head, pausing in his attempt to leave the sofa where he and John had been tangled in a kiss just moments before. “Cuddling?”

John smiled that gorgeous John Watson smile, the smile Sherlock had only ever seen reserved for him and him alone, and reached out for Sherlock’s hand. “Yeah,” he said, and though it looked like he might want to blush, he didn’t. “Kissing and cuddling. That’s still fine right? Holding hands. Holding each other. All the other stuff. Just no sex.” He took Sherlock’s hand, holding it between his own, tracing his fingers over Sherlock’s knuckles. Expression hopeful. Expression understanding. Expression…

Sherlock loved John. There was no denying that. He didn’t quite know when it happened, didn’t even fully know when he had even acknowledged it, he just knew that he was irrevocably in love with John Hamish Watson; army captain, medical doctor, and blogger.

Pressed up against John, snug in his arms, senses overwhelmed, Sherlock had never been happier. Despite his parents’ affection, they had never been much of ‘cuddlers’ with their children, though perhaps that was due to their children not being much of cuddlers themselves. Or so Sherlock thought he hadn’t been. Now, John’s arms around him as he curled into the shorter man’s side, he was second guessing that belief.

John was…indescribable. He was a contradiction of self, too many personalities wrapped up in soft jumpers with the hard line of a gun at his back, firm harms with gentle touches. He rolled his eyes at Sherlock’s deductions, but his lips curled into a smile. He was…something else entirely from everything that Sherlock had ever known. Was it really any wonder Sherlock had fallen as deeply as he had?

But John wanted sex, and Sherlock didn’t.

The kissing was marvellous, however. How had he gone so long without a proper snog? And John was certainly good at it. Better than good. Sherlock had been embarrassed at his own attempts, had mentally berated himself for his fumbling and prepared himself for John’s laughter, but instead John had looked kind and patient and together they learned just what the other liked in terms of kissing.

John had also declared that Sherlock was never allowed to kiss anyone else ever again, thank you very much, and though Sherlock had shivered a little and very much enjoyed the possessive little growl accompanying those words, it hadn’t hit him with arousal. He wanted to belong to John, wholly, but sex to him just wasn’t a part of that.

Everything had gone well those first few weeks after they officially became a couple—an occurrence that came about due to the adrenaline of running from a killer and collapsing together in a fit of laughter inside the walls of 221 Baker Street, which then led to Sherlock’s very inexperienced kissing—but that was because even John understood waiting for sex. Because he was, wasn’t he? John had to expect sex at some point, even if he said he understood Sherlock was asexual.

Asexual. Lacking sexual attraction to any gender.

Despite that, however, Sherlock could tell that John _was_ sexually attractive, if only to other people. He saw the way women naturally fell into his charm, how even men were not immune to the Watson Charm once John stopped caring about denying his bisexuality, and his natural flirtatious nature could come out towards anyone.

Sherlock hated that.

It wasn’t as though he was necessarily afraid that John would cheat on him or anything (at least that’s what he told himself) but that John wasn’t even aware most of the time that he _was_ flirting. It was simply that the man was so affable and engaging that people flocked to him, especially when he was standing in complete opposition to Sherlock’s own brusque and demeaning behaviours.

And what would happen when John had finally had enough of Sherlock’s inability to perform and he realised he had his pick of the litter to choose from? Before, Sherlock had only had to worry about the female specimens, but now that John had fully acknowledged his sexuality there was now yet another gender to worry about taking John away from him.

He had to do this.

He had to give John what he wanted. He had studied up on asexuality, knew that some aces (as they called themselves) would partake in sexual activities for the sake of their their partners, some might even quite enjoy sex itself and just didn’t experience the attraction towards others, but he also knew that others were completely repulsed by the thought of sex. He knew he didn’t go quite that far, but he also knew that he’d rather avoid it entirely, if at all possible.

But it wasn’t possible. He had to do this for John. He loved John, even if the man didn’t quite return the strength of his affections, but he had to do this. Prude, he’d heard people like him called. Selfish, for not giving their partner what they needed. Frigid, unfeeling, robotic.

Sherlock couldn’t really deny that he saw himself as more robot than man most days, but that had nothing to do with his sexuality. As well, with John, he found himself feeling more and more. Nothing robotic about how his heart yearned for John all these years.

And now that he had him, Sherlock couldn’t let him go.

He had to do it.

Tonight.

Swallowing, Sherlock stared at himself in the mirror. He looked ghastly. He hoped John wouldn’t notice. Or, perhaps, John would just excuse it as nerves. He was, after all, incredibly nervous. He was thankful therefore that John was off at his second job, still determined to pretend he was just a normal doctor, instead of accepting that he was the most important man in the universe. According to Sherlock, at least, and truly Sherlock’s opinion was the only one that mattered in this case.

He had spent hours pouring over the mechanics of sex between two men, had used John’s computer to watch the porn that his partner liked, lips thinning when he’d noticed how John was watching more and more plots with just two men, as opposed to the women he’d once preferred. It only made it more obvious about what John wanted. Right. He had to do it.

Sherlock has showered, quite thoroughly, with all the necessary accoutrements he’d read about online, despite his alarm about such things. It needed to be done. So, he’d showered, waxed, trimmed, and overall groomed himself as the information online told him too, and picked out an outfit he knew that John found pleasing, pacing back and forth as he waited for John to arrive.

As inexperienced in these matters as Sherlock was, however, he knew that John wouldn’t take it quite the right way if Sherlock just bent over the moment John arrived home. No, there had to be subtlety, build-up, and most importantly there had to be romance. Something Sherlock was still learning about.

Who cared about anniversaries when your significant other was right there with you in the present? And the obligation of gift giving holidays and the like was atrocious. Sherlock would much rather be running after a criminal and dodging bullets than wasting time waxing poetic about your romantic partner over a candlelit dinner.

“Oi, what’s all this then?”

Sherlock startled, silently reprimanding himself for not hearing John coming up the stairs, but then he had been rather preoccupied. He turned, swallowed, took in John who was still standing in the doorway and blinking rather stupidly at their kitchen table that was, for once, completely devoid of anything bordering on hazardous and was instead set up with tall white taper candles between two place settings. Soft music played in the air.

“Dinner, obviously, John,” Sherlock said with a roll of his eyes. “I know you’re surrounded by idiots all day, but that’s no excuse to come home sounding like one.”

John, well used to such a diatribe, simply smiled in amazement as he took in everything, though his brows were furrowed in slight confusion as he removed his jacket and hung it up. “Why is the tablecloth pink?”

Sherlock glanced at the tablecloth which was a lurid colour of pink, but it was the nearest to the actual colour he could get. Atop it, holding the twin candles, were candlesticks in the shape of lotus flowers, though sadly he couldn’t find any that were black. Five pips were scattered on the table, as well as a toy bus, a rubber snake, a pile of sugar, and a picture of Margaret Thatcher. He’d considered getting a comic book as well, but it seemed rather overkill, and he certainly didn’t want anything that might remind John of The Woman.

Or the things that happened after her.

Sherlock cleared his throat, turning back to John, but he paused as he saw the look in the man’s eyes. Ah. Excellent. He understood then. Sherlock had not been keen on explaining it all to the man. He might have gone to the trouble of scouring John’s blog for ideas, but the sentiment of leaving mementos of their cases together was purely for John’s benefit only. He needed tonight to be perfect. He hoped he’d chosen the right ones. He honestly didn’t know what would make John happy or not.

“Our cases,” John breathed, stepping forward. The lights of the candles fluttered over his expression, turning it both soft and severe at the same time, but Sherlock knew he had done right. Good. “Sherlock, seriously, what is all this?”

Instead of answering, Sherlock swirled away to the oven where he pulled out the plated takeaway he’d been keeping warm and carefully set them at each place setting. “I called Angelo to deliver this,” he stated, John’s favourite at his place setting and his second favourite at Sherlock’s just in case. Sherlock knew he wouldn’t really be able to eat anyways, but he wanted to put up the front at least.

“Sherlock,” John said with a sigh of mild exasperation. “What is going on?” He didn’t protest or fight as Sherlock steered him to the table, however, which Sherlock counted as a victory. He quickly grabbed a hold of the other man’s hand when he moved to walk away, tugging lightly on him, looking up at him expectantly. “What is this?” he whispered.

Hesitating, Sherlock stared down at John, before making himself smile and dropping a quick kiss to John’s upturned lips. “You always see to my needs, John. I thought I might return the favour for once. I told you I don’t see the point behind assigned days of celebration, however…I am not averse to the occasional display on other days.”

John gave Sherlock a look that was full of such naked affection and tenderness that it physically hurt the man, his chest thumping heavily as his stomach twisted, and he had to take several slow breathes before he felt like he could regain his equilibrium. John tugged on his hand again, and this time he moved closer quite willingly, leaning down again to take John’s lips in a much slower kiss that shot down Sherlock’s spine to make his toes curl.

“God, you’re perfect, Sherlock,” John breathed when they finally pulled apart. “Don’t ever change.”

Sherlock, cheeks a little flushed, rocked on his feet for a moment before moving to his spot across the table. He cleared his throat, looking at John across the table with another twist of his stomach. The lighting did, admittedly, look good on John, and it made their kitchen seem far more intimate. The heat in his cheeks did not dissipate as he thought about what they would be doing later, rather the opposite in fact , but this time the pink flesh was not due to any sort of pleasure.

“Oh!” he suddenly exclaimed, feeling like an idiot for having forgotten the wine. The knowledge of what was to come left him far too flustered, and he again silently berated himself for his folly. He stood quickly from the table, moving to grab the wine from the cabinet he’d been safely storing it in, before moving once more to the table to pour them both a healthy glassful.

“Wine too?” John asked with a pleasant wryness. “If it weren’t for the fact that I know how you feel about marriage, I might suspect you were going to propose, Sherlock,” he teased. Sherlock, predictably, gave a rather rude sounding snort causing John to laugh, not looking the least bit peeved.

“Despite what our neighbours would have us believe, a flimsy piece paper with our signatures on it is not in any way, shape, or form indicative of the significance of our relationship,” Sherlock began bitingly, the hand that had been shaking as he poured the wine now steady as he moved back to take his seat. “The fabled permanence of marriage, we both know, is not so ironclad. While divorce rates are lowering with every passing year, that is only due to the fact that couples have been cohabitating for some time prior, and only marry for the benefits. Far too much effort for benefits we don’t even need.”

“You’re so romantic,” John said, fluttering his lashes. There was no antagonism to his words, however, only the briefest tease. He knew what he was getting into with Sherlock, or so he should by now.

Sherlock, meanwhile, rolled his eyes. “Eat up, dearest,” he deadpanned, causing John to snort in laughter and nearly spill his wine as he reached for it. He grinned across the table at Sherlock, holding up his glass. Sherlock, expression softening slightly, did the same. “To living in sin,” John said, face warm with affection.

“To the utter ridiculousness of my partner,” Sherlock dryly returned. He smiled, small but happy, behind his wineglass. Judging by John’s expression the blond had certainly seen it, however,

The conversation flowed easily after that point, Sherlock’s anxiousness not quite forgotten but merely simmering lowly on the back burner of his thoughts as he enjoyed the evening with John. While he much would have preferred a dead body that night, he couldn’t deny that it was sometimes nice to simply share a quiet moment together. Of course, the knowledge of what was to come wasn’t too far from his thoughts. Definitely would have preferred a dead body to that.

But John deserved better than a partner that couldn’t even put out.

If Sherlock did this, maybe, just maybe, John might stick around for a little while longer. That was worth all the pain, all the discomfort, and all the anxiety in the world.

Not that he thought John would be rough with him. He knew John wouldn’t get off on causing Sherlock pain, which was perhaps why the man hadn’t pushed for sex yet with Sherlock, despite the clear indicators that he wanted it. However, Sherlock was not at all interested in the activity, and even if he took medication to facilitate an erection, he knew that it would do nothing about how tense he was behind.

Sherlock had, of course, masturbated before. He had a male body, after all, but biological arousal did not indicate sexual arousal. He took care of things as necessary, but it usually took far too long to climax, and he found it much easier to just ignore such things and continue on as normal, when available. He never enjoyed it the way he knew John did, so he doubted he’d really enjoy actual sex.

That was another thing he had studied regarding his sexuality. For all of Sherlock’s knowledge of the scientific definition of asexuality, he hadn’t known anything about the sexual orientation until he’d began looking it up. He’d joined some forums, some chat rooms, discussing with others like him what it meant. He had been pleased to know that asexual was more an umbrella term, and that there was such a wide array of them on the spectrum, but mostly he was just glad to know that he was not alone in these feelings.

He would never admit it, of course, but Donovan’s words did carry their punch. Not an extreme amount, but she was the hardly the first to label him as something untoward, not the first to condemn him for who he was. He had been alone most his life, and though he had John now who understood the fight against a heteronormative world where everything was in black and white, his virginity had always been a sore subject.

The lack of interest, especially in uni when it was all anyone seemed to think about, had left Sherlock feeling as though something was broken inside of him. Something broken, something wrong, a chemical imbalance in his head, something and anything to prove that he was irrefutably damaged.

Sherlock never really cared much about labels. He wrapped his high functioning sociopathy around himself like a cloak, armour, but it hadn’t been because he needed the label for himself. No, the label had always been for others. So, he really didn’t care about the actual label of his sexuality, not really, didn’t care if he was asexual, grey-sexual, demi-sexual, or any other sexual. He only cared that he wasn’t alone.

And, okay, perhaps it did feel nice to put a label to it, to be able to say, ‘This! This, this, this! This is what I am! I’m not broken! I’m asexual!’

That didn’t mean he went around flaunting it about or anything. (He might have bought a small flag in ace colours, but he kept it crammed in a drawer between some pages of an unread book, so it wasn’t like he was waving it around or some other such nonsense.) He simply just liked to _know_.

 “Hey,” John murmured quietly, reaching across the table towards Sherlock’s hand. “Are you okay? Answer me honestly. You just seem really…pensive tonight?” He glanced dubiously at the wine in his glass, before flicking to Sherlock’s sleeve covered arm as though he could see any nicotine patches through the material of his shirt. “Is it a danger night?” he asked, barely loud enough to be heard on a soft breath of concern.

Sherlock swallowed, shook his head, took John’s hand and gave it a light squeeze. “No, John. I’m fine.” He made a small humming noise before amending, “It’s not a danger night.” It could never be a danger night again. He couldn’t put John through that a second time. He supposed that was what had really started all this. What had begun the near electric charge between them, shifted their relationship just enough to leave it open to becoming something more that night in the hallway with a kiss.

It was after Sherlock came back from the dead, after he’d startled John who had swayed alarmingly like he might faint until his equilibrium had returned, after John let out a snarl and he’d punched Sherlock straight in the face. Sherlock supposed he probably deserved that. John didn’t fall into place beside him, however, not immediately. He had a new life, and Sherlock found that he was no longer a part of it.

It was after a particularly vicious row (a bit one-sided really, as John did most of the yelling, as tended to be the case nowadays) that Sherlock returned to his seven percent solutions after John stormed out to return to his own solution, a perfectly ordinary woman he had become engaged to during Sherlock’s absence. Picturing them together, picturing John with anyone else, and Sherlock’s seven percent solution had become a bit more.

John had returned shortly after, aggrieved at their fight or so Sherlock had been told had happened, and had discovered Sherlock collapsed and very nearly convulsing. Sherlock didn’t quite know what happened after, all he knew was that he woke up in hospital, room dark save for his monitors, and John’s hand lightly clasped over his while his head lolled to the side in exhausted slumber in the chair next to the bed.

When Sherlock was released, John went with him. Things were stilted, apologies were said on both sides, but slowly things were returning to how they had been. Sherlock didn’t know what became of John’s fiancée, but he knew that when he woke up in hospital there had been a diamond ring on the table near the bed, and the blond-haired man never mentioned her again.

John was more tactile after that point, and he came to Sherlock’s defence far more quickly than he had in the past, perhaps in pittance for the harsh things he’d said before, but Sherlock didn’t care. He had John back.

Of course, then the touches slowly became more lingering, the looks more charged, and then that glorious night they were racing back home in a mirror of their first adventure together, laughing in the vestibule, smiling, and before Sherlock knew it they were kissing.

Sherlock was still mildly embarrassed about what an atrocious kisser he had been at the beginning. Thankfully, John never seemed to mind. Equally thankfully Sherlock was a fast study. He learned quickly and waking up in the hospital bed next to a John with pale skin, limp hair, and bags under his eyes, Sherlock had learned to never put John through that again. Never again.

“What’s wrong then?” John asked, refusing to be deflected. “No, don’t lie,” he said firmly but not unkindly when Sherlock opened his mouth, causing the other man to snap his jaw closed and let out a huffing sigh.

“John…everything is fine, I promise,” he said after a moment, giving the man a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes all the way, but at least it was there partially. He stood then, knowing that they were done eating (well, John was done eating, he had simply pushed his around his plate) and moved around to John’s side. “Come. Dance with me.”

John snorted, eyed Sherlock’s outstretched hand, before rolling his eyes and taking it. “You daft man,” he gently chided, but the affection in his tone was palpable.

Sherlock shot John a brief grin before leading him the empty space in the sitting room, pulling John close and letting him take the lead as they gently swayed to the instrumental music playing from the speakers. He knew John wasn’t necessarily a fan of dancing, but he did know that the man was a fan of holding Sherlock, and he seemed to relax with the tall man in his arms once more.

He could do this. For John. Always for John.

When their lips first touched, it was soft, gentle, tender. It was the sort of kiss Sherlock loved because of the way it seemed to steal the breath from his lungs and made his head spin. When the kiss turned a little more eager, well, Sherlock liked those ones too. He hummed into the kiss, enjoying the feeling of John’s arms wrapping around him to hold him close, and he could practically feel John’s heart thumping against him. Right.

Time to do this.

Though Sherlock had every intention of this taking place in the bedroom, where he had everything set up already, he slowly maneuvered John to the sofa for the time being. He knew John might balk if he was just thrust into this. He needed John to understand that Sherlock would do whatever it would take to make him happy. Whatever John wanted, for however long John wanted him.

John let out a soft grunt as the back of his legs hit the sofa and he tumbled down, but then Sherlock was right there, claiming John’s lips again as he crawled into the man’s lap, knees on either side of the man’s hips and hands settled at his shoulders.

“Mmm, Sherlock,” John breathed in a mumble against Sherlock’s lips, his hands automatically going to the other man’s hips to keep him steady. “What are you doing?”

“I’m snogging you, what does it look like,” Sherlock lightly grumbled, nipping at John’s bottom lip as his hands slid over his partner’s chest.

“You normally don’t sit in my lap to do so,” John pointed out, but he obviously wasn’t complaining by the way he tightened his grip on Sherlock. Excellent.

“Maybe I should,” Sherlock smirked. Judging by John’s grunt, he seemed to agree. Sherlock let his hands continue sliding over John, kissing the man deeply, letting himself grow comfortable before trying anything else. He really didn’t mind this part. In fact, he could go on kissing John like this for a while. So he did.

Kissing was good. Sherlock enjoyed the kissing, the holding, even the gentle caresses of John’s hands over him. He would love nothing more than to do this and only this for the rest of his life with John, but he knew that that would make the rest of their lives together very short indeed, which he was not all right with. Not at all.

So Sherlock was asexual. So Sherlock didn’t feel the sexual attraction John did, didn’t have the sexual arousal or desire to do anything more than snog. That didn’t matter. That wasn’t important. Keeping John happy was important. And, as the snogging continued, he could feel what would make John happy growing firmer against him.

Ah. John was getting into the mood at least.

Sherlock shifted, clumsily, trying to mimic what he’d seen in the pornography he watched, though it lacked the grace and John ended up pushing Sherlock a little bit away as he tumbled too near, pulling his mouth away as he softly panted.

“Shit,” John quietly huffed, before giving Sherlock a wry smile. “You okay?”

Hesitating for only a moment, Sherlock took hold of John’s hands and slid them further back, placing him on his own arse as he slid further in again, pressing against John the right way this time judging by the sharp inhale of breath and the way he tensed beneath him. “John,” he breathed, low, deep, rumbling with his feelings for the man beneath him.

“Oh god, Sherlock,” John groaned, fingers flexing on the man’s arse. “Fuck…what are you doing?”

He could feel John growing harder beneath him as he rocked his hips lightly over him, feeling his stomach curl into uncomfortable knots, but he didn’t let it show. Instead, he smiled at John through his lashes, and his hands moved between them to begin undoing John’s trousers. “I’m doing what I should have done a long time ago. I know you want me. I’m sorry I’ve been so selfish. I want you to have me whenever you want,” he purred in John’s ear.

John’s eyes fluttered closed, his breathing growing a touch shallow, and he arched under the consulting detective above him. “Sherlock…”

“Never leave me, John,” Sherlock whispered. “And I’ll let you fuck me whenever you want.”

John’s eyes snapped open, his mouth working soundlessly, and then he sucked in a sharp breath when Sherlock’s hand slipped inside his trousers and cupped him through his pants.

“No!” John exclaimed, and suddenly his hands were on Sherlock’s hips again, firm, lifting Sherlock up and practically throwing him on the sofa next to him as he scrambled to his feet away from the sofa. He was breathing quickly, eyes wide and skin flushed, and he was staring at Sherlock as though he’s never seen him before. “What the hell, Sherlock!”

Sherlock flinched as he was thrown, and he looked up at John with equally wide eyes, feeling a fissure of fear rush through him. This wasn’t how this was supposed to go. “What?” he asked, petulant and worried, brows furrowed. “John…” he began, moving to kneel on the sofa facing John. “I’m saying we can have sex.”

John ran his hand disbelievingly over his face, before staring up at the ceiling and giving a mirthless chuckle. “Sherlock…you’re asexual,” he pointed out as if Sherlock could have possibly forgotten that. “Unless that’s changed…”

“Of course it hasn’t, John,” Sherlock snapped, because he was actually quite fond of the term now and he didn’t want to give it up. He then realised that snapping at John probably wasn’t the best way of getting what he wanted. He bit his lip, looking up at John with wide eyes. “I just…you deserve to feel good, John,” he breathed huskily. “I want to make you happy.”

John stared at Sherlock, unmoved by the act. “And would it make you happy, Sherlock? To stick your arse in the air and let me bugger you?”

Sherlock’s cheeks tinged a faint pink, but he forced himself not to look away. “Yes,” he said quietly, but unconvincingly.

“Liar,” John bit out. He shook his head, then realising he was still hanging halfway out of his trousers, he shoved himself back inside and redid the button and zip. “We had this discussion when we first got together. You don’t like sex. You don’t want sex. So why now?”

“John…” This time the bitten lip wasn’t an act, but it also wasn’t meant as an act of seduction either. “John, please…” he said, whispering the word he rarely if ever used.

Thickly swallowing, John shook his head quickly. “Not until you tell me why,” he said resolutely, back stiffening, shoulders squaring, legs planted in military pose. Normally the sight would have intrigued Sherlock, but now it just made his shoulders slump slightly. Things had been going so well…

“John…we both know you…enjoy sex,” he said, wanting to make certain it didn’t sound like he was shaming the man or anything. That was another thing he’d read about. The belief that asexuals shamed others for sex, especially bisexuals and pansexuals due to their affiliation with more than just one gender. He’d never shame anything about John. “You won’t be happy without it.”

John’s brows furrowed then, and though a spot of anger darkened his expression, it didn’t enter into his tone. “We haven’t had sex all this time and I’ve been happy,” he pointed out. Despite the anger not being in his tone, it was still tight.

“But for how long?” Sherlock exploded out. “How long until it’s not enough, John? How long until I’m—” Sherlock cut himself off, cleared his throat, licked his lips. _How long until **I’m** not enough?_ Even though he didn’t say it, they both heard it. And John, judging by how his expression immediately softened, seemed to hear even more of what Sherlock wasn’t saying.

“Sherlock…”

Sherlock scowled, crossing his arms and looking away. “You like sex, John. I don’t. We’re really not compatible.”

“So, what, you were going to let me shag you so I’d stay?” John’s tone was soft, not quite hurt, but saddened. He shook his head, but he finally moved towards Sherlock again, reaching out to gently cup his jaw. “You idiot. Of course we’re compatible. We need each other.”

Sherlock’s eyes closed of their own accord, and he leaned into John’s touch, letting out a shuddering breath as John softly smiled and pressed a kiss to his brow. Hesitantly, Sherlock’s arms opened to wrap around John’s middle. “You could leave me and I’d be here with cases for you whenever you showed up,” Sherlock mumbled. “You’d still get what you needed.”

John let out a brutal snort at that, tugging sharply at Sherlock’s hair causing the man to yelp and glare up at John accusingly. “Don’t say such stupid things. I don’t need you because of the cases, I need you because I love you.”

Sherlock froze, besides a sudden inhale of breath and a rapid blinking of his eyelids, that is. They had never, not once, exchanged those words before. Sherlock felt it, oh yes Sherlock felt it with every fibre of his being, but he’d never expect John to return those feelings for him of all people. It felt like his stomach was going to expel itself. “You…” Sherlock tried to start, but the words caught in his throat. He shuddered against John’s hold. “You love me?” he croaked.

“Of course I love you, you daft twit,” John huffed in short laughter. “How could you possibly doubt that? Even Mary knew that.”

Who was Mary?

Oh. The fiancée. Right.

Sherlock stared up at John, unable to believe that John truly meant those words. “Then…then you should want sex with me. You should be upset I haven’t put out yet. You should be furious I haven’t held up my end of the deal.”

“Your end of the deal?” John snorted again. “Sherlock, we’re in a relationship, not a business transaction. There is no deal. You’re not obligated to have sex with me just because we’re together, whether we’re in love or not. I knew you were asexual when we got together. I knew what that meant. And I meant what I said. Kissing, hugging, cuddling…that’s all that I want from you Sherlock. I just want to be with you. To be able to say, ‘back off everyone, this delightful and arrogant arsehole of a consulting detective is my boyfriend, and I’m going to kiss him now.’” John grinned slightly at that, and leaned in quickly to peck Sherlock’s lips with his own.

“But…” Sherlock didn’t understand, but he did try to follow John’s lips to kiss him again, though John annoyingly moved back. “But you like sex.”

“I like you more,” John said simply with a shrug, which shut Sherlock up again. He grinned down at him. “Sherlock, I won’t deny that I’m sexually attracted to you. That I think about you when I wank. That I _would_ like to have sex with you. But doing that would be tantamount to rape, and I _don’t_ want to do that. You don’t like sex, you don’t want sex, and I’m perfectly _happy_ and content to just hold you and spend a little longer in the shower in the mornings.”

John studied Sherlock, who studied John in turn, before smiling and pushing back the wild curls of Sherlock’s fringe. “So,” he said musingly, “I guess I actually don’t want to have sex with you. Sex with you doesn’t exist in our reality, and I don’t want what it would be. I just want you. In my arms. Your lips against mine. Your heart beating in harmony with my own. I don’t care that you’re asexual, Sherlock. I don’t love you in spite of it. I love all of you, and that includes your sexuality.”

Sherlock, hating himself for it, felt his eyes sting. That sounded almost like John ac—

“I accept you, Sherlock, all of you. And I love all you. And I will always love all of you. Even when we’re old and grey and we’ve never had sex once, I will love you. All right?”

Sherlock choked down an embarrassing sob, leaning forward to press his forehead to John’s chest, tightening his arms around the man. “John,” he whimpered.

“Oh, Sherlock,” John breathed, wrapping his own arms around the man’s shoulders. They weren’t quaking, but Sherlock still felt on edge. “I love you, you idiot,” he whispered again. “I’m not going to leave just because we don’t have sex. Sex isn’t important. Only this is.”

John leaned down to press a kiss to the top of Sherlock’s head, smiling into the curls. “Come on. How about we go to bed. I had a long day at the clinic, and you seem like you’ve had a long day as well. I just want to hold you as we fall asleep.”

Sherlock nodded against John, before freezing. He peeked up at John, eyes pink along the rims but at least they weren’t leaking, and his cheeks tinged an embarrassed pink. “Er…perhaps I should…take care of things in there first.”

John rolled his eyes up towards the ceiling before looking back down at Sherlock in fond exasperation. “What is it now?”

Sherlock tried to look unaffected, but ultimately failed, and his eyes skittered away. “I thought…what I thought was going to happen…I wanted to make certain you had enough things for however long it would take,” he mumbled.

“God, you’re something else entirely, aren’t you?” John asked, but he was smiling as he said it again, and he cupped Sherlock’s jaw to lightly kiss him. “Go on then. You take care of the bedroom, and I’ll clean up out here. And then I’m going to cuddle you all night long, all right?”

Sherlock nodded quickly, quite pleased with that idea after everything, and released John to dart into the bedroom. He pushed the multiple foil packets off the top of the bedside table and into a drawer, hesitating when the three economy size bottles of lube wouldn’t fit before deciding to just toss them under the bed. Right. There was also a pair of handcuffs, just in case, and those joined the condoms in the drawer.

Once the room looked relatively normal again, Sherlock moved to quickly change into his pyjamas, though he didn’t feel quite comfortable enough to climb into bed to wait for John. He was still doubting that John meant what he said. Of course he would want sex. Of course he would leave, eventually, whether he got it or not. It was only a matter of time.

Rape, John had called it. It brought to mind what else Sherlock had read about. Corrective Rape, though many rejected that term as it brought to mind that something needed to be fixed, was still a problem around the world. Homosexuals as well as asexuals, anyone who didn’t fit in a heterosexual point of view really, were frequently raped in some ignorant attempt to turn the victim heterosexual, as though it were a learned ability.

Was that what Sherlock was asking John to do? Not necessarily the turning heterosexual part, quite obviously, but rather the Corrective Rape Therapy. For asexuals it was to force them to enjoy sex, to prove them wrong. Or to punish them for not enjoying it, in some cases. Sherlock wasn’t trying to learn to enjoy it or trying to punish himself; he merely wanted to let John know he could have it and Sherlock wouldn’t mind. Or at least as far as John was aware he wouldn’t mind.

If John wouldn’t take it because he didn’t want to rape Sherlock, however, then where would that leave them? How long until John left? Who would wish to stay with a repressed, frigid, selfish freak?

“Hey,” John’s soft voice broke into his thoughts, and Sherlock startled at being caught unaware again, turning to face John who was lingering in the doorway. How long had Sherlock been lost in thought? “Christ, Sherlock, you’re tearing yourself apart. Stop it.”

John moved into the room then, moved to take Sherlock into his arms, and Sherlock went willingly. Even though John was the shorter of the pair, Sherlock curled against him, clinging to him as though afraid he’d disappear if he ever let go. John lightly chuckled.

“I’m not going anywhere, you daft man,” he murmured. “I told you. I love you. I’m not with you because I want sex. I’m with you because I was dying before I met you. Every day it was harder and harder to get up, to shower and get dressed, to pretend I had a life to live. Every day it was harder and harder to ignore the gun in my drawer. Shh,” he murmured when Sherlock twitched.

They never really talked about that. Especially not after Sherlock’s own fake suicide. He’d read it there, plain on John’s face that day at St Bart’s. It wasn’t just his limp he’d been determined to fix. He figured that was why his apparent suicide had been so hard on John. Stupid! He should have considered that before he jumped. John would know exactly what would have been going through his head, had he meant to truly fall.

“John…how can you possibly be happy without it?” he mumbled against the man.

“Because, you idiot, I have you. I don’t need sex as long as I have you,” John said, pulling back enough to smile up at Sherlock. “I’m never going to leave you again, all right? Not until you get tired of how stupid I am and send me on my way.”

It was Sherlock’s turn now to let out a contemptuous snort. “I could never tire of you, John. Even when you bore me, I could never grow tired of you.”

John, instead of looking insulted, beamed up at Sherlock. “So what makes you think, even for just a second, that I can’t feel the same way about you?” He lifted his fingers to cover Sherlock’s mouth when he moved to speak. “No, not yet. Let me finish. Sherlock…you were willing to have sex with me to keep me. Why can’t I be just as willing to give up sex to keep you?”

Sherlock froze at that new thought, lips tingling under John’s fingers, and his eyes darted between John’s eyes, tracking over his face and expression, before letting out a shuddering breath. John…John meant it. He had to. There was nothing false in his gaze, nothing malicious in his smile, and Sherlock felt his eyes sting again.

“Ah.” John’s smile grew, but also gentled. “There it is. You see? I’m not lying to you, Sherlock. I accept that you’re asexual. I love you. All of you. And I have no interest in changing anything about you. Except maybe you could get the milk every once in a while,” he lightly teased.

Sherlock’s eyes crinkled up into a smile of his own, and he stared down at John with such naked adoration. _John_ …beautiful, perfect, amazing John. His John.

“Get in bed, you git,” John chuckled. “I’m going to get dressed for bed, and then I’ll join you.”

Sherlock nodded, drew in a shuddering breath, before moving to crawl into bed to wait for his partner. He didn’t remember when they started sleeping in the same bed, it just sort of happened one night and then John never left. And John, perfect John, had never tried to push for more. He simply held Sherlock, as he had promised to always do.

When John finally joined him, he moved immediately into the man’s arms again, burrowing into his chest. John’s arms just as immediately wound around him, and Sherlock let out a contented sigh, placing his hand over John’s chest. He bit his lip, however, and peeked up at John. “John…I…what you said, before. It was…it was good. And you should know…what you said…I—”

“I love you too, Sherlock. You don’t need to feel obligated to repeat it. I know. I couldn’t ever doubt it, not after tonight, not after what you were willing to do.” John softly sighed, moving his hand to begin carding through Sherlock’s hair just as he knew he liked it. “I hope you won’t doubt it of me either now.”

“No,” Sherlock replied with a smile. “No. I don’t. Not anymore.”

“Good.”

“John, I…” Taking a deep breath, Sherlock gathered his strength. “I don’t want to have sex. Ever. It…makes me uncomfortable. I can never let you penetrate me.”

John simply smiled. “I know. I wouldn’t expect you to.”

A swallow. A biting of lip. Sherlock considered his words before he spoke them. He had to mean them to himself, not just because he wanted to make John happy. He considered it, pictured it, decided what he felt about it. He let out a slow breath. “Maybe, in time, I could…let you wank on me. Or something. Maybe.”

John paused, and Sherlock worried he’d said the wrong thing, before John let out a whoosh of air and another wry chuckle. “Maybe,” John agreed, and he pulled Sherlock up into a gentle kiss. “Maybe, if you really want to, but it’s not necessary.”

Sherlock tightened his hold on John. “It doesn’t bother me you’re sexually attracted to me. That you develop erections because of me. It bothers me that you might regret it, entering into a sexless relationship with me. Might resent the lack of sex.”

John shook his head, and there was no regret or resentment in his eyes. “How could I ever regret this? How could I ever resent you? You give my life meaning, Sherlock Holmes. We’ll deal with whatever comes up in the future, but if this is what I’m lucky enough to have for the rest of my life, just you safe and warm in my arms, then that is all I could ever want. More than I had ever hoped of having.”

Sherlock’s expression was probably far too telling, given that one look at it had John’s own eyes turning suspiciously shiny, but he couldn’t help it. John didn’t see him as cold, or selfish, or a freak. He never had. He bit his lip, hesitated, then softly whispered, “I love you.”

The joy that lit up John’s face was worth it. So was the kiss that followed it. And when the kiss ended, and they simply held each other as they fell asleep, Sherlock knew that it would always be worth it. It would always be good enough.

When, the next day, he found his little ace flag pinned to the wall above their bed, Sherlock began reconsidering his previous assessment, and thought maybe it would be nice to have their signatures on a flimsy piece of paper after all.

The next week a little bi flag was pinned safely next to his.

 

_Not The End, just a New Beginning_

**Author's Note:**

> No matter what you identify as, no matter if you use labels or not, be proud of who you are. You are not alone.
> 
> Find my Tumblr at [ladyxdarcy.tumblr.com ](http://ladyxdarcy.tumblr.com)


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